


I’ll Tear You Apart

by exquisiteagony



Category: Murderdolls (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Amputation, Anal Sex, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugging, Forced Orgasm, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Spit As Lube, Torture, literally some of this is inspired by ramsey bolton from game of thrones, overstimluation, very nearly had blood as lube in it but i decided that was a bit much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisiteagony/pseuds/exquisiteagony
Summary: To most, a butcher’s work was messy. Crude. Unrefined. For the ordinary person - however much of a relative concept ordinary way - to butcher something was to fuck it up in a manner unclean and unrepairable.
Relationships: Joseph Poole | Wednesday 13/Eric Griffin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do i have four other things to finish off, like two chapters of ‘I’m not even done with you’ and a follow up chapter to the Gen/Racci one and the Weds/Joey/Ben one? Yes. But y’all saw the butcher photoshoot pics right? Anyway I am gross so have this. If anyone doesn’t want to see this and want me to make it so it can only be seen when logged in lmk?

To most, a butcher’s work was messy. Crude. Unrefined. For the ordinary person - however much of a relative concept ordinary was - to butcher something was to fuck it up in a manner unclean and unrepairable.

The butcher grinned to himself as he cleaned his knives in the prep room, a long day of work finally over.

It wasn’t true. Not in the slightest. Butchery was all about refinement. Skill. Picking and choosing the choicest cuts and deciding how exactly to get them. Afterall, a shoddy cut could cost you money that would also affect the farmer who sold you the carcass, and if you cost the farmer money, he would be breathing down your neck. Enough shoddy cuts costing you enough money and then the farmer would choose someone else to sell his meat to, and you’d lose your business.

And when that pretty meat still had a pulse… well. It just needed all the more finesse if it was to stay pretty.

Eric was certainly a pretty thing. He had been when Wednesday first saw him, hanging behind his friends in the park, angular face downcast, and he was now, face near-constantly streaked with tears and missing a few fingers. The sicker part of Wednesday’s mind said that Eric was prettier now, like a butterfly with wings bent to cripple it or a bird with its wings clipped or crushed.

Wednesday hummed to himself at that, towelling dry his cleavers to put them away for the next day’s work.

Oh, he cut Eric up, sure; he cut up all his victims - but cleavers and the like were not often needed. Scalpels were of more use for work like this, although he still rarely used one.

A tool more refined than he’d been trained to use, but that was no matter. That deficiency took little experience for it to become a deficiency no longer, and now he had quite the soft spot for it. It took more time than a larger blade, sure, but he liked that. It gave him more accuracy and time with his  _ companions _ , and more of both was never a bad thing.

Once they were all dry and away, he double checked he’d locked the shop up for the night before he put his apron into the sink to soak in bleach before he washed it later for tomorrow, and then he headed down into the cellars.

The butcher’s shop was his. His living quarters were above the shop floor; a little bedroom with an en suite bathroom that was not as nice as it sounded and a kitchen and living room so cramped together he felt claustrophobic.

The cellars, on the other hand, were not cramped in the slightest. Six large rooms; one a huge freezer for storing cut meat, two a pair of walk-in fridges for storing carcasses, one an office, one a workroom for chopping up meat for the prep room, and one spare.

Well, it used to be a spare room.

Now it was still unfurnished but for metal brackets in the walls, a bucket, and a mattress on the floor, but it had an occupant.

Eric’s room was locked with a padlock and three bolts, all so heavy it had taken the best part of a day to secure. A couple of latch chains served as a flimsy guard against escape, but they’d been on the door originally, so he’d never bothered to remove them. It was almost comical how flimsy they were compared to the other locks, and the amusement they provoked was too great to get rid of them.

Once he’d unlocked the door, it opened with a screech of hinges. It too was heavy; a weight that filled him with confidence. His victims would never be free, not if he stayed vigilant.

Wednesday let a smirk spread across his face and flipped the light on.

The strip light flickered to life, its’ mosquito hum just a faint stimulus he blocked out.

Eric blinked at the light, curled up on the mattress. He uncurled enough to shift to a crouch, hunched over in the corner.

He was shaking, and Wednesday was never sure if it was hunger, cold, or fear. The thin blanket the butcher had provided to him did little against the chill, and Eric looked to be having difficulty wrapping himself up in it, what with his missing fingers and the chains restricting his movement.

He’d never much tried to escape, but Wednesday knew all too well how that placidity could be a front. Better safe than sorry, even if it made taking him out of the room annoyingly laborious.

Eric had cried the first time Wednesday had locked the collar around his neck to chain him up to the wall, resolve and resistance broken down for the first time.

Oh, he’d been angry later, screaming insults until he lost his voice whilst tears trekked clean paths down his grubby cheeks, but he’d been broken enough for a good while after he’d been collared. He’d still been crying when Wednesday had stroked his hair and given him water and food, confused and distraught and just how Wednesday wanted him, and that had been good enough.

When Wednesday had fixed heavy steel cuffs around his wrists, Eric had cried again.

He’d stopped asking why Wednesday was doing this after Wednesday had just locked him in the room and left him for two days, angered by the constant questioning and finding his usual methods did little to shut him up.

With the light switch outside the room he’d clearly had no idea how long he’d been left for; half starved and nearly out of his mind.

That had opened up a new avenue of thought for the butcher, and he’d taken to shutting Eric in the darkness for long times when he disobeyed him and sometimes when he didn’t, refusing to talk to him when he did go in to give him food or water or fuck him, ensuring that he didn’t visit him at regular intervals. Sometimes it was six hours between visits, other times it was over a day, and at one point it had only been little over two hours.

After little more than two weeks of that, he kept the light on all the time for a week, continuing with the erratic visits whilst Eric couldn’t sleep. Then he went back to darkness for another couple of weeks.

By the end of it all, Eric had no idea how long he’d been Wednesday’s prisoner. He cried every time he saw him until his face was nearly constantly swollen, his voice always hoarse, even when he tried to whisper. He willingly capitulated to everything Wednesday wanted, just a snivelling, weeping shell who’d flinch and shake at every movement Wednesday made in a way that made Wednesday feel like a cat toying with a mouse before he ate it. At one point he’d evidently been plagued with nightmares, and in terrified delirium had curled up into Wednesday, like the butcher was a source of comfort, not the root of his terrors. Wednesday had smirked whilst he’d held him, stroking his hair with slow, gentle movements until Eric regained a hold of himself and wrenched away from him.

By that point he’d been so broken that Wednesday had half considered just killing him, but he was missing so few body parts, and it would be a shame to kill him just yet. There was so much fun to be had, so much he hadn’t done.

So instead of just cutting his throat and being done with him, Wednesday set about piecing Eric’s mind back together.

It had been another long, painful two months before Eric had regained his anger, but Wednesday spent another month making sure Eric was sane enough for more torment before he began again.

He’d had Eric for just over a year now, and what a year it had been! Eric had been his guinea pig for torment, his only companion, and a relief at the end of a long day chopping and smiling to customers whilst preparing their food and imagining the pork was not pig meat.

That was always fun, using leftover victims to pad out his supply. Usually he’d feed his victims their own flesh, once they were delirious and hungry enough not to notice, not whole in either body or mind, but he put them out of their misery when it became clear they were just barely clinging on. Chopping their remains up and selling them did enough to stifle his frustrated rage that he could never get more use from them, and it gave him satisfaction to give the ruder customers human flesh. Sometimes he even gave the nicer ones the human cuts too, because corrupting such nice people in such a way thrilled him.

He hadn’t fed Eric any of himself yet, but that was for when he was missing arms, not fingers. He would get there eventually.

That would probably be sooner rather than later, given Eric’s recent tantrums. The man was certainly getting more than just his mind back, and it was beginning to become a problem.

Or the opportunity for new, more indulgent torment. It was just a matter of perspective.

Yes. Fingers might not be especially meaty, but to fry one severed one up and serve it to its owner, disguised as something else… 

A fitting punishment for disobedience.

If there was enough meat for it to be worth it, which Wednesday highly doubted.

The first time Eric had lost a finger, he’d begged for it.

Wednesday had been slowly skinning one shin in long thin ribbons, more to persuade Eric into choosing amputation than anything. Eric had been thrashing and screaming underneath the leather straps keeping him on the table, but Wednesday had been whispering slick words in his ear, how it just needed to be a neat severance with a cleaver and some heat to cauterise the wound, how he’d forget he lost the finger within a day. After five strips had been peeled from his leg, leaving his shin pinstriped red and white, Eric begged for him to just cut a finger off.

Wednesday had asked him which one, that he’d have to choose.

Stupidly, Eric had chosen his pinky finger.

The butcher had been unable to hide a smirk, and Eric had quickly retracted his choice, but it was too late, and now his right hand was barely useful. 

Whilst the poker was heating up, Wednesday had continued his flaying, and waited for Eric’s betrayed bellows to subside before explaining himself, that he couldn’t amputate until the poker was hot and how else was he to amuse himself?

By the end of it all, Eric had had seven strips flayed off him.

Not that you could really tell anymore if you weren’t looking for it.

Oh, there were long, thin scar marks where the skin had healed up - remarkably well, all things considered, and Wednesday almost shuddered to think of a previous victim, whose flayed strips had wound up with maggots writhing in them, eating him alive, hands chained and fingers missing so he couldn’t remove them - but Eric bore no open wounds anymore.

Even the stumps of his fingers were pretty healed up. The only current issue was the cuffs and collar being tight enough to chafe his skin until it bled, and that was laughable in the face of missing limbs. It might be keeping Eric in enough discomfort that he didn’t sleep well anymore, but he wasn’t complaining.

And if he did, Wednesday didn’t know if he’d bandage the wounds or make them worse.

“You’re still here, safe and sound, huh?” the butcher drawled to Eric once he’d stood in the doorway for a couple of minutes, watching him tremble.

At the sound of his voice, Eric flinched. Eyes wide and fixed on him, he was squatting on his mattress, one hand clasping his blanket around him whilst he shivered. Only one finger was missing on that hand, and it was clasped tight against his body like he could protect it from the butcher. Wednesday smirked, because he couldn’t protect any part of himself from him, and walked in to check the bucket by the mattress, taking the opportunity to loom over Eric whilst he did so.

He didn’t need to check the bucket - the ammonia smell of piss had hit his nose the second he’d opened the door - but Eric always seemed to curl up on himself, some sane part of him still able to feel shame making his cheeks redden every time Wednesday inspected the bucket, so he did it all the same. He made his face perfectly blank, serene as a statue, when he looked down, and then picked the bucket up, standing and pausing as if he was considering tipping it over Eric.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eric cringed into the corner, like he could avoid the potential stream of his own waste by melting into the wall. His other hand looked to be up by his mouth.

He chewed on his nails. Wednesday had never really seen him do, but he’d seen the unevenness on his fingernails as evidence.

Whatever. He shifted his attention back to the bucket.

There was a drain in the workroom, for the fluids that made his job messy. It was useful for cutting up animals, sure, but it was also useful for other things. Like emptying buckets of piss.

Once the bucket was empty and returned to its place, Wednesday crouched over Eric, bending down in a squat.

Tears were all but making a river down his prisoner’s cheeks again, showing how grubby his face was, and his nose was running. He needed washing again.

Wednesday wanted to scoff. Eric might be his favourite victim he’d ever taken if it wasn’t for all the tears. They became tiresome after a while.

Instead of scoffing, he reached out to hold Eric’s face in his hands. Eric flinched, which made him smile, but he just wiped the tears away and shushed him soothingly.

Mockingly.

“I’ve not even started yet,” he chided, keeping his voice light like he didn’t want Eric to flinch again. “And I'm not going to start for a while. You need a wash again, and food.” As if washing didn’t count as some kind of torment.

Eric had stopped struggling against it now, but there was something angry, almost defiant in his eyes that Wednesday mistrusted. He was still terrified, yes, but there was something rather overall petulant in the look he was giving the butcher.

Hmm. If Wednesday was a man with less imagination, he’d say it was time to go back to erratic visits and constant light again. But no. He didn’t mind dissent in his victims, not really, because it meant he could flay them and cut them up again.

And it had been a good while since he’d last taken a chunk out of Eric. At least a month.

He was getting ahead of himself. That was all in good time. For now, all he needed to do was to take Eric to the second fridge - basically a walk-in refrigerator - and hand him soap and a washcloth and wait for him to be done to comb his hair.

It was unpleasant for Eric, the soaps designed to scour dirt and filth away and the water nearly always cold because of the shitty heating system, the room always cold despite never being turned on, but it was a step better for Eric than how Wednesday used to clean him, and Eric didn’t complain much anymore anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

He unlocked the collar and cuffs from the wall, and grabbed the collar’s chain, giving it a gentle tug. Eric sobbed again like he’d hoped Wednesday was bluffing, but dutifully set about climbing to his feet.

Some sadistic part of Wednesday’s mind - or a part even more sadistic than the rest - wanted to give the chain a larger tug to make Eric topple before he fully stood up, but he resisted that urge. There was little point heaping shit on Eric when he hadn't done anything to deserve it. It detracted from the punishments he doled out. 

Once Eric was fully stood, blanket clutched pathetically around his shoulders, Wednesday led him out of his room, chain wrapped tightly in his hand. It was slow progress; the shackles around Eric’s ankles hobbling him and his legs not used to much movement, but soon enough they were in the fridge, and Wednesday was filling buckets and trying to ignore the chill of the room.

That was when Eric chose to strike.

Wednesday had gotten into the habit of not chaining Eric up when he was washing. Eric’s ankles were still shackled, and there were three doors between him and freedom, so as a reward for good behaviour, Wednesday had taken to letting him free to walk around the room before he handed him the sponge and waited in the doorway.

Eric usually hobbled around the room in a circuit, shivering in the corner of Wednesday’s eye and trying to get some exercise in so his muscles didn’t cramp too much. He could get two circuits in per bucket, and Wednesday actually almost encouraged this walking. He was not a patient man, not enough to want to wait for cramped muscles to strain whilst they worked, and anyway, Eric needed to walk about and use his muscles if his meat was to be of a high enough quality to sell well.

Wednesday was on the third bucket, bent over and trying to get some warmth to come through - temperamental fucking system - when he felt a sharp shove to his back, sending him sprawling onto the floor. His flailing leg caught one full bucket, and sent it flying. Eric’s feet could be heard pattering as he made for the doors, his chains rattling, as he shuffled and pushed the door to as he fled, and the butcher clambered to his feet with a roar. How fucking dare he?! Wednesday straightened up and turned to the door to the next fridge-room, swinging shut like it could keep him in the fridge. He stepped over Eric’s blanket, not quite running but certainly not keeping his pace tardy.

Why should he run? He’d locked the door out to the shop as a precaution for this - he always did - and he had the key on him.

Eric was disappearing through the door to the next room - the workroom - moving quickly despite his chains, carcasses yet to be cut for the shop hanging from the ceiling and swinging in his wake, and Wednesday strode after him. Ducking and sidestepping the carcasses, he made short work of the room. 

The door shut in his face, but it was only a slight hindrance. He shoved it open with his shoulder, and paused in the doorway, half expecting Eric to leap out at him with a knife or saw.

Instead, Eric was by the stairs. When he turned to see Wednesday stood in the doorway, he sobbed again, and began to make his way up the stairs.

He didn’t get far. Barely three steps in, he tripped and fell, his shackles limiting his movement too much.

Wednesday took one step into the room, feeling the warmth of it wash over him, a blissful respite from the cold.

Eric sobbed, hands reaching out to scrabble for the stairs like he could pull himself up, feet kicking aimlessly at the stairs to push himself.

Wednesday turned to his knife box and selected one. He tucked it into his belt before prowling towards the stairs.

Eric’s sobs were piteous. He’d only made it up a few stairs, his efforts all hindered by hysteria. Every few seconds he turned to look at Wednesday over his shoulder, and every glance induced more terror, more sobs that began to verge on shrieks, and more useless scrambling. He was shaking worse than ever, and that impeded his progress even more.

He was pitiful. Pathetic.

Laughable.

Wednesday waited until Eric was one stair away from being out of reach, letting him scramble and slither about, bare flesh grazing on the stone, and then he grabbed the chain linking Eric’s shackles and  _ pulled. _

Eric bumped gracelessly down the stairs with a scream somewhere between fear and despair, and reached about blindly for the handrail.

Fuck it. Wednesday just grabbed Eric, wrapping his arms about the younger man’s waist, and half-carried half-dragged him back to the fridge room, ignoring the chill of the room like it was just a fly buzzing around him. Eric yelled and kicked and thrashed about, trying to free himself, but he was weakened from months of malnourishment and imprisonment, and Wednesday was strong from heaving dead cows and pigs about and chopping them up for a living.

Once they were back in the fridge-room, Wednesday all but threw Eric in, letting him stumble and trip onto the floor whilst he turned and shut the door, locking it so Eric couldn’t try for a repeat attempt at freedom.

He didn’t need to really bother. Eric was sprawled on the floor, shaking and shuddering, sobs wracking his frail shoulders, but Wednesday just stared down at him for a few seconds, watching him curl up into a ball, arms clasping around his legs. The butcher scoffed and grabbed him and yanked him to his feet, tugging on the chain on his collar to chivvy him.

Once he’d wrested Eric to his feet, he slammed him back against the wall. Eric’s head cracked against the wall with a metallic crash, and the butcher could see the pain bloom through the terror in his pale eyes, wide and unblinking. Wednesday closed the gap between them, pinning Eric with his body so he could loom down at him.

Eric’s lips trembled, his arms flailing against the metal wall, fingernails scrabbling uselessly against the steel. Tears streamed down his cheeks again, and Wednesday grabbed his chin, holding it tight so he could speak to him and make sure he listened.

“You’ve been here a long time. You know what happens when you anger me,” he growled, watching Eric sob harder until his nose was running. “Well, you know what’s gonna happen next. Don’t you?”

Eric just sobbed harder, wailing, his chest fluttering beneath Wednesday as his breathing became erratic. A slap that sent his head snapping to the side made him cry out a ‘yes’,

Wednesday stepped back, letting Eric get away from the biting chill of the wall, and picked up the ends of the chains attached to his cuffs, running his fingers through the loops on the ends whilst he decided how to restrain him.

He dropped the chains to walk over to the pulleys and gave the lever a crank. With an almost deafening rattle that echoed off the walls, all the meat hooks descended until they were six feet off the ground. Eric flinched at the sound, and Wednesday took three strides towards him, close enough to pick up the ends of the chain from his collar but not close enough for Eric to try anything.

Not that he would. Eric was not a brave man, and he’d never pulled any shit twice in one go. Even if Wednesday put little effort into cowing him, he’d never dare to try again without weeks between attempts.

Still, caution was a good idea before he inflicted punishment upon his victim. Wednesday flicked the chain loops over a hook and then flicked the cuff chains over the same hook. Then he crossed back to the pulleys to crank the hooks back up with the same metallic screech. Eric’s arms were cranked up, and he cringed away from Wednesday, shivering, face buried in his arms.

In the wake of the hooks’ mechanical screech, he’d stopped sobbing.

By the end of tonight, he’d wind up bloody and filthy again, needing another wash, but that was later. Wednesday smirked, and went to refill the bucket.

Steam rose from the bucket - hot water, finally - and the partially filled final bucket was soon completely full.

Wednesday turned back to Eric, looking him up and down. A smirk quirked one side of his mouth as he took in what he saw; scarred flesh pale from imprisonment and long, greasy black hair, pouring down his back and hanging nearly to his waist.

Eric peeked out between his arms at him, and immediately trembled, knees shaking and face pale like he would be sick. Wednesday let his smirk consume his face.

Now he could begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit’s amping up.

Washing Eric was not always an easy task. At first, the chain keeping him in place had been attached to his collar but his hands had been free, and he’d tried to shove Wednesday away every time he came at him with a sponge. The butcher’s solution had been to attach his cuffs to his collar, so Eric had started trying to kick him.

It had been the main reason why Wednesday had shackled his ankles in the first place, because Eric dealt surprisingly vicious, painful kicks for a man so weakened by weeds of imprisonment, although the shackles had proved to be useful not just to deter Eric from kicking him in the end. 

Eric had still tried to kick him a few times, but every time, he’d lost his balance and ended up nearly strangling himself on his collar, unable to regain his foothold and hands useless to pull himself up with. Wednesday usually let him choke until his eyes were bulging, because it fucking served him right, but he’d always stop him from actually strangling, picking him up from behind and letting him wheeze in a few breaths before putting him down to wash him.

Then, Eric had started elbowing him, so he’d had to come up with a better solution and kick himself for not doing it initially.

Of course, he skinned Eric’s legs again and chopped off a finger in retaliation for his defiance, joint by joint, but it began to lose its spice, so he’d shut him away in darkness for two and a half days. Not enough to fracture his mind again, but enough to be a not at all idle threat.

Eric mostly capitulated then, but he still found a way to work his way under Wednesday’s skin. Whether it was mumbling pitiful pleas and whimpers that somehow struck a chord deep within the butcher or by just ignoring him for as long as he could, he still found a way to get at Wednesday, in more ways than one. 

The worst part was, when Eric did that, he wasn’t intentionally trying to provoke a reaction from him.

Sure, Wednesday could strap him down and flay and cut him up as punishment if he got annoyed by it, but what was the point? He couldn’t change the rules for the same reason he couldn’t torment Eric just because he wanted to - it left Eric with nothing to lose, no deterrent against dissent. Why should he behave when he’d get hurt anyway?

Wednesday shook his head and took a step forward.

For some reason, that was the breaking point.

Eric began to plead again, his pitiful voice beginning to get under Wednesday’s skin and crawl down his spine, sending heat with it like his blood was simmering. Head turning towards the wall, like if he looked at it hard enough, he could pretend Wednesday wasn’t there, but he whimpered and whined and begged, his hoarse voice rising in volume and pitch.

It just sent more of those sparks through him. 

The butcher snorted, half-wanting to palm himself. Pleading had never gotten Eric anything except a good, thorough fucking, and it was cute how he thought that maybe this time would be different. He dumped the bucket down and spanned the space between them in seconds, standing behind Eric and grabbing a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to stare him in the face.

Predictably, Eric sobbed again. The noise was torn between a wail and a gasp; the sort of uncontrollable noise Wednesday loved to elicit from his victims, and he smiled, standing flush against him. Eric’s breaths shuddered in and out, his lower lip wobbling when he felt Wednesday’s arousal making itself known against him.

“There’s no fucking point pleading, Eric,” he growled, spitting his captive’s name to make him flinch. “I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want to you, and you have to take it. It’s very sweet you think I have a better nature to appeal to, but I don’t have one. All your pleading ever does is make my dick hard.”

“Why,” Eric whimpered, eyes watering and nose running. “Whyyyyyyyyy?”

A flash of annoyance shot through Wednesday, but he quashed it. Instead, he let go of Eric’s hair as a wrapped one arm around him from behind, splaying his hand over Eric’s freezing, clammy skin. Eric flinched and tensed up, mumbling little ‘no’s and ‘oh god’s into his arms. The butcher ignored him, wrapping his other arm around Eric and rubbed at his sides in a manner that would probably be soothing if performed by anyone else.

His fingers jumped over the bumps of his ribs, his ministrations leaving goosebumps in its wake whilst Eric fidgeted and flinched at every sudden move, desperate to do something to get away from him but too scared to do anything. Wednesday smirked and buried his face into the back of Eric’s head, so close he could feel the bony ridges of his neck, and he sniffed his hair, knowing how much Eric hated it.

There was a certain spice to humiliating his victims. He could give them pain beyond their wildest nightmares, but the humiliation he enjoyed heaping upon them seemed to be the perfect tool to really break them down. Washing them was a part of it, but it could take many forms, and Eric was perhaps the easiest victim he’d ever had in that regard. Even now, he was still ashamed by nearly everything.

Eric continued to mumble, and Wednesday soon got bored of playing with him, so just yanked Eric’s skirt down, squeezing his ass as he went, and let him step out of it, tossing it to the corner.

It had belonged to a previous victim. Wednesday wasn’t quite cruel enough to keep Eric naked the whole time given the cold of the cellar, and having to unchain his ankles so he could step in and out of boxers had grown tedious, so he’d grabbed it from the chest he kept all of his victim’s clothes in and tossed it at Eric a couple months into his capture. 

Without further ado, he stepped back towards the buckets and picked up the first one.

The metal was so cold it burnt against his skin, chilled by the water within. He grinned. Eric was really gonna hate this.

He took a few steps towards the chained man, leaned backwards with the bucket, and then tossed its contents over him.

Eric shrieked at the cold; an involuntary response that left him breathless for nearly a minute, and Wednesday just cackled.

“Oh what the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you,” Eric screeched once he’d got his breath back, legs tucked together, knees wobbling.

Within seconds Wednesday was right by him, and he grabbed Eric by his sopping hair again and yanked his head back to slap him. How fucking dare he?

Eric yelled at the slap, then his eyes cleared, like he’d only just realised what he said. “I, I, I,” he stammered, then gave up.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Wednesday snarled back, letting go of Eric’s hair in a movement so vicious it was almost a shove.

After that, it was easy. 

He slathered the damp washcloth in soap and proceeded to scrub Eric clean.

Eric gave no resistance. Whatever had possessed him to make a break for freedom, whatever guts he’d summoned up to defy the butcher, they were long gone. He hung in his chains like they were the only thing keeping him upright, flinching and weeping like a wounded animal, wailing when Wednesday tossed the contents of the other two buckets over him.

The last bucket was still warm. It was a small mercy, but one that Wednesday didn’t give a shit about giving. There was still plenty of punishment to dole out.

By the end of it all, Eric was shivering and weeping, and Wednesday wanted nothing more than to yank his pants down and fuck him.

First he had to dry Eric off, because he’d splashed himself enough times already that his clothes were already becoming uncomfortable, and he knew from experience how fucking annoying having damp patches down his front was.

First, he squeezed the water out of Eric’s hair, then combed through it, brushing out all the tangles from the last few days. Eric’s hair was lovely, even whilst greasy from imprisonment, and it seemed a shame to let it mat together.

Then he grabbed the towel and began to pay Eric dry.

He started sobbing again at this point, still hanging almost limp in his restraints, flinching like he wanted to fight him but was too terrified to actually try. He knew what came next, and he knew it was useless to resist. After his earlier antics, resistance would only make it worse for him. Weeping acquiescence was the best course of action, the only way to minimise his torment.

Even if Wednesday wasn’t feeling especially kind.

He smiled grimly to himself, taking a handful of his victim’s ass and squeezing hard enough to make him squeal before going to dry his legs like nothing had happened.

Finally, Eric was dry. Wednesday barely had the patience to struggle with his own fly, nearly breaking the zipper in his haste, but then his pants were around his knees and he had two spit-slicked fingers in Eric, preparing him.

Eric’s whimpers from the intrusion sent more sparks through the butcher, and by god did he wish that he could just fuck Eric without preamble, but doing that would have consequences down the line.

Then he was sure Eric was ready enough, so he spat into his palm, gave himself several pumps, and slid into Eric.

The relief of it made him groan, head tipping back, hands gravitating to Eric’s hips, fingers digging in tight enough to bruise. Eric sniffled, still crying.

Oh god, he felt so good. His ass was still pretty tight, tight enough for Wednesday to reconsider placing Eric as second favourite victim, and his whimpers just stoked the butcher’s lust.

There was one trick the butcher liked to employ to get the best orgasm. Sensing he was getting close, Wednesday shifted his hand from holding onto Eric to grabbing at his flaccid dick and pump him.

Eric squealed amongst his sobs. Wednesday hadn't spat into his hand for this, and they both knew how bad chafing could be.

For a minute or so, the butcher didn’t care, but then decided that if Eric was hurting he wouldn’t cum - hell, he would barely get hard - which defeated the whole point of jerking him off, so he paused his jerking to spit into his hand.

That seemed to be the trick. It didn’t take much for Eric to begin to get hard, more pleas and sobs pouring from his lips. Wednesday smiled into the back of his head.

Timing it so that Eric’s orgasm sent him into his felt great physically, yes, but making Eric cum also humiliated him. Wednesday could use his body’s responses against him, taunt him about how he was so pathetic he couldn’t even control his own dick.

“You keep saying no to me, and yet you’re getting hard too,” he grunted.

“Noooo,” Eric wailed like always, his breathing becoming more erratic, but Wednesday just chuckled.

“You keep saying that. I think you need to stop lying to me.”

“I’m not,” Eric sobbed desperately. Wednesday pumped him faster, and his sobs quickly became moans.

When Eric did cum, he all but thrashed about in his chains. Wednesday got thrown into his own orgasm, hand still cranking Eric, drawing out his prisoner’s orgasm to make his own all the better.

Once he’d finished, he leaned against Eric, panting. Eric was crying again. Wednesday reached up to wipe his tears away, but didn’t bother taunting him.

“I hate you,” Eric said, his voice a high whine. “I fucking hate you.”

Wednesday just scoffed, tucking himself away. “If you hate me now, you’re really gonna hate me in a couple hours time,” he drawled.

Eric flopped his head back and laughed. His tears were still wet on his cheeks. “I’m gonna die here,” he said, sounding like he barely believed himself. “I’m gonna fucking die here.”

Wednesday walked over to the pulley to crank the hooks down. “Yep,” was all he said before the metallic screech heralded Eric’s release from the hook. “There was never an eventuality in which you would survive,” he said softly, walking back over to Eric and unhooking the chains, then picked the skirt up and tossed it at him.

Eric sniffed and pulled it up.

Wednesday just tugged the chains. His prisoner hesitated, then shuffled after him. What was going to happen was going to happen, and there was nothing he could do.

When he saw where he was being led, he pulled back like he’d been hoping it was over. “No!”

“Yes.” Wednesday gave the collar chain a sharp tug. 

Eric resisted for a few seconds, shoulders tensed up, but then he slumped down and continued his miserable shuffling towards the work table.

Wednesday deemed him suitably cowed, and then turned to his knife block to select what blades he would need. He knew what he was gonna do, he just needed to decide upon his weapons.

Eric must really have a fucking death wish, because he headed up the stairs again.

Wednesday didn’t notice until he heard him at the door to the shop, alternating between yanking on the handle and throwing his weight against the door desperately. The butcher looked up in disbelief, then strode after Eric, making short work of the space between them.

“It locks with a key, you brainless cunt!” he roared, grabbing Eric by his pretty hair and pulling him down the stairs.

Eric started screaming at that point, but he was still powerless to the butcher. Wednesday picked him up with ease and carried him down to the huge table in the middle of the room and dumped him down on it. He grabbed one wrist and slipped the leather strap around it, yanking it tight and buckling it above the cuff. Eric immediately scrabbled at it with his free hand, but Wednesday just grabbed that wrist and squeezed until his victim cried again before he fastened it down.

It was easy to strap his ankles down. Eric just begged for clemency, wriggling like he might be able to escape, but Wednesday just picked up his treasured scalpel. Eric stopped his struggles when he saw it, but then Wednesday grabbed his restrained hand - dammit he really needed to get some finger restraining apparatus - and needled the point of it just under the one remaining fingernail on Eric’s right hand.

Eric flinched again, still begging. Wednesday pressed harder, and Eric’s face paled, eyes fixed on the blade, breathing coming and going rapidly.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. It was almost as if they were trapped in a dance, two figurines on a music box, but then the butcher pressed harder again with the scalpel. There was some resistance before the blade dug in, and red trickled from breath Eric’s nail.

Eric made a noise like an animal in a trap. His face was bloodless, eyes wide, mouth quivering like he would be sick. Wednesday gave him a wild smile before he slid the blade along the underside of Eric’s nail. More red trickled.

Then Wednesday changed tack. He removed the blade from under Eric’s nail, prompting a sigh of relief from the man, and then pressed it against the knuckle crease of that joint. Eric mumbled an ‘oh no’, but Wednesday just slid the blade all around the knuckle crease, until he’d cut a ring of blood.

Next he sliced stripes down from the tip of Eric’s finger to the cut.

“Do you know what I’m gonna do,” Wednesday asked.

Eric gagged.

Without further ado, Wednesday teased a flap of skin away from Eric’s finger, and then slowly ripped it.

Eric’s cry of pain quickly crescendoed to a screech. Once Wednesday had ripped the little segment off, he waited until Eric stopped yelling before he started on the next strip.

It took three strips before Eric begged him to just cut the finger off.

“I’m gonna cut it off,” Wednesday assured him, speaking slowly and patronisingly like he would to a child. “I always was gonna. But you disobeyed me twice. Your behaviour has consequences. So instead of chopping it and being done, I wanna take my time.”

He was more careful on the other two joints. After all, fingers weren’t especially meaty, and he was trying to save as much of the meat as possible.

Eric wept and screamed, his hand bloody. After a while, Wednesday grew tired of the screaming, so he shoved a cloth into his prisoner’s mouth before flaying the final joint.

Every so often he’d turn to slap Eric. He wasn't going to let him faint on him. That negated the point of punishing him.

Finally it was over. The butcher picked up his favourite cleaver and laid Eric’s hand out flat on the table to chop his finger off.

Eric was still begging behind his gag for him to chop it off and be done with it. His stare was unfocused, his mouth open dumbly, delirious.

Wednesday chopped. At this point there was no point dragging it out, so he just cauterised and disinfected the wound, and then took Eric back to his cell.

Back in the workroom, he picked up the finger and examined it. As he’d suspected, there wasn’t much meat. Not enough for his purposes. He frowned, disappointed, and tossed the appendage into the offal bucket. He’d deal with it later.

Then he looked towards the freezer cabinet against the far wall, a smile curling his mouth.

Sometimes it was dull when his victims weren’t missing parts, and he itches to feed them to themselves or his customers. Killing other people and storing the bodies, ready to be cut up, didn’t really soothe the longing to feed them themselves, but it seemed to be a more effective intermediate measure than anything else he’d tried.

At first he thought he’d been given a girl. Short and dainty, and the dude had been wearing lipstick and a dress, but no. It was a man, lying in the freezer and now missing an arm and a part of one leg.

Wednesday walked over to the cabinet and opened it.

Frost had gathered on the man’s eyelashes, and his lips were blue. He looked peaceful, despite his circumstances; like some fairytale ice princess. There was something about him that always made the butcher think back to his school days, when he’d been made to read ‘The Lady of Shalott’ in his English class. She’d died and laid herself in a boat, and he distinctly remembered the text highlighting how peaceful she’d appeared in death.

He gave a humourless chuckle at that. If the man was the lady, who the fuck was he? Sir Lancelot? That wasn’t likely.

In the silence, he fancied he could hear Eric weeping. It pushed him into action, grabbing the body and pulling it out of the freezer, taking it to the table to chop the remainder of the leg off. Once it was severed from its owner, he put the man back, shutting the freezer to carry on with his task.

Skinning a limb was easier when it’s owner was dead and he wasn’t trying to torture them. He scraped away the fat and assessed the meat.

There wasn’t much. The better portion would go to Eric, because quite frankly he needed it, but what would be left wouldn’t be enough.

Hm.

He used intestines as sausage wrap when he could. Why not put a little human into the mincemeat?

Yes. He would do that. Satisfied with his solution, he chopped up an Eric-sized cut and took it upstairs to his kitchen with his apron, tossing the apron in the washing machine and setting it on a short wash.

He was hungry too. Thwarting Eric’s escape attempts had filled him with adrenaline, but now it was wearing off. Once he’d washed his hands, he opened the fridge.

Bagged salad stared out at him from a shelf. It was near its use by date. He pulled it out, and then went to rummage for fries in the freezer.

He might not feed Eric as often as he should, but when he did, he fed him well.

Perks of working in a butcher’s shop.

Of course, he hadn’t always been so kind to all of his victims.

He had a friend. The Collector, he called himself. Strawberry blond hair and a neck so thick Wednesday doubted he’d be able to get both of his hands around it. The man was disturbed in a way that made Wednesday’s skin crawl, always obsessed on adding people to his collection of-

Wednesday was never quite sure. He liked his victims with a pulse and mostly whole, so every so often Wednesday would just drive his victims insane and then let the Collector take over. In return, the Collector would supply Wednesday with human flesh for his shop.

That was where the dead man in the freezer had come from.

But there was one victim that always stood out to the butcher, long after he’d forgotten his name.

He’d captured two of them at once. He’d chopped up one, lopping off a finger here and there until the man had none, always threatening to turn on the other. He’d terrorised that second man out of his mind, crying and screaming every time he saw the butcher whilst his companion just slowly accepted his fate.

When the one was dead, missing too many parts to keep living, the other lost his mind further still. Wednesday gave him a glass of water every day, and then watched the chaos unfold.

Once the survivor had eaten his companion, Wednesday had handed him over to the Collector.

He never did learn what happened to him.

The smell of the cooking meat took him back to the cell he’d made for his victims, where he’d watched in fascination and mild arousal as the poor man chewed his companion’s body. The smell of blood, the squelching noises, the grunting, the initial horror Wednesday had felt when he first opened the door before fascination took over-

Wednesday’s blood fizzed again, and he gasped, stumbling for the bathroom. Blood flashed before his eyes in a distant memory whilst his hands scrabbled at his belt again.

When the timer for the fries went off, signalling the food was ready, Wednesday tucked himself away again and washed his hands. He plated the food, setting it on a tray with a plastic jug full of water he’d dosed with sleeping medication, and carried it down to the cell like he hadn’t just been jacking off to the memory of watching a previous prisoner cannibalise his friend.

Eric stared blankly at him. He was still crying, but he reached up greedily for the tray anyway. When Wednesday set it down, he grabbed the tug and brought it to his mouth, gulping down the water. When it was half empty, he started on the plate. His missing fingers made him awkward and clumsy, but even so, it didn’t take long for him to finish. Wednesday stayed with him until his head began to nod, the sleeping meds taking effect.

He’d done what he could to stave off infection from Eric’s hand, he decided, locking the cell. Sleep was the best healer.

Wednesday yawned.

The washing machine would still be going, and he had to shower, anyway. After that, he’d go to bed. There was nothing on TV worth watching, and he had to be up early to open the shop.

That was a nice evening, he thought, walking up the stairs. Easy and lazy.

He locked the cellar behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might write a whole series of butcher!Weds. I’m writing something on serial killer Corey atm and I couldn’t resist mentioning him.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah I’ve got a tumblr now. Same username as here. I’ll post little snippets every now and again and my random fuckshit thought processes so if that interests you then you can give it a follow if you like?


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